


Whose Are You?

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate universe - Roma, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys Kissing, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Slightly ooc John, Trying not to be racist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:44:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's family comes to town one night, bringing with them excitement and music and a world Sherlock knows nothing about. How could Sherlock not fall for the interesting older boy? </p><p>John is twenty-one <br/>Sherlock is nineteen</p><p>Trying to not be horribly racist, all I know about Roma culture is what I've read online and the amazing music of Gogol Bordello. Eugene Hutz makes me want to love the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whose Are You?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> If you see anything that seems racist let me know. I'm trying really hard not to fetishise the Roma people and instead to show the beauty of their culture. I know it's not all roses, but what culture is?

Sherlock was determining the cause of death on a deer the night the gypsies came to town. Well, the Roma, Romani. The Romani came in a caravan in the dark of night. The darkness did nothing to hide their presence. Sherlock knelt in the ditch next to the carcass and watched in awe as twenty or so people along with several dogs unloaded from various vehicles. 

They went about setting up camp in the tall grass, playing music almost at once and talking nonstop. Well, not all of them talked nonstop, it was just that there were so many people in one place that it seemed so. Sherlock watched in silence as lanterns were lit and children played. He watched for a half hour before he decided to leave, his experiment spoiled. 

_____

"What are you doing sneaking in so late?" Mycroft demanded as Sherlock came in the door. 

"What are you doing here at all?" Sherlock spit back. "Shouldn't you be in your posh London flat with your fake girlfriend?" 

Mycroft's cheeks reddened but he knew it was deflection. He took in Sherlock's soiled knees and the bit of stray grass sticking out of his hair. 

"Were you digging up dead things again? You know mummy hates it when you do that." he said. 

"That was once! One time!" Sherlock bit out defensively. 

"If not then why are you covered in detritus from the field down the road from the grocery?" Mycroft asked, squinting suspiciously. 

"It wasn't buried. It was barely even dead. It's impossible to get anything done during the day so I went back to it tonight. Everything was ruined by the damn gypsies!" Sherlock hissed. "I don't know why they had to set up camp next to MY dead deer." 

"Roma." Mycroft replied as he poured himself a whiskey.

"What?" Sherlock asked. 

"Gypsy has become a fairly derogatory term when used in that tone of voice, brother dear. If you're going to complain about them at least say Roma. Save us a scandal."

"I wasn't-it's just-they ruined my experiment!" Sherlock fumbled. "And I'm not racist. I hate everyone the same." 

Mycroft snorted and walked away as Sherlock silently stewed. 'Tomorrow,' he promised himself, 'I'll have a talk with the lot of them!' 

_____

The next morning Sherlock set off down the road with his rucksack on his back and a bad attitude. He was going to tell the gypsies, Roma, Romani people, whatever, that he needed to experiment on the deer whether they wanted him around or not. Sure, he didn't own the land right there, but neither did they! And if they had eaten the dead beast they'd all have worms anyways and wouldn't that just serve them right? 

"Oof!" he grunted as he was knocked to the ground. 

"Martiya!" (spirit of the night) a short young man said as he stumbled over Sherlock and fell as well. 

Sherlock found himself face to face with the boy and couldn't help the jolt he felt as breath gusted over his cheek. His eyes were a dark blue that might have been mistaken for brown from a distance and his eyelashes were a dark blond. Sherlock blushed deeply and backed away. 

"I, um, the deer, the, um." he tried. 

The boy looked confused for a second before grinning widely. "Oh! You're the chavi from last night! Didn't think you'd come back." 

"You saw me?" Sherlock asked, horrified and impressed at the same time. 

"Your eyes were like saucers!" the boy replied, grin still plastered on his face. 

"Well, I was in the middle of something!" Sherlock said a bit defensively. 

"Ah. Yes. It was a type of parasite. Shows up first in the eyes. Makes them dili, erm, crazy. They often wander into traffic. This one just succumbed." the boy replied sadly. 

"How did you...is the carcass gone?" Sherlock asked, eyes as wide as they were the night before. 

"It was khantino, smelly, had to move it. I'll take you there if you like. I'm John." the boy said, sticking his hand out. 

"Sherlock." 

They shook, Sherlock's hand being a bit weak in his hesitation and John's being strong and steady, as was his way. They both got up and brushed off the dust and Sherlock followed John down an embankment towards the water. 

"You didn't put it in the creek! The water will-" Sherlock began. 

"Accelerate decomposition. Yes, I know." John replied with a small smile. (The boy never seemed to stop smiling and it was irritating.) 

"If you knew then why did you do it?" Sherlock spit angrily, already pulling a pair of gloves from his rucksack and slipping them on. 

"I said 'yes, I know', I didn't say I had." John replied. "She's over here, dry and covered." 

He pointed to a grassy area next to the water and there the deer was, covered in burlap but fine. Sherlock knelt down and peeled the burlap back to look at the face. He opened one eye and looked closely. There were small wispy things below the surface. They looked like embedded hairs. They were indicative of the parasite John had mentioned. 

"I didn't see them last night." Sherlock said softly. 

"Because you were hiding." John supplied. 

"Because I was looking for a gunshot wound." Sherlock corrected. 

"Nature can often be as cruel as man, though with different purpose. Chindilan?" John asked. 

"What?" Sherlock replied. 

John sighed and shook his head. "I'm sorry. I haven't spoken English in some time. Are you weary? Would you like to eat?" 

"Oh. I'm not really...I should be getting home." Sherlock said nervously, removing his gloves and stuffing them back in his rucksack. 

"Aren't you going to take an eye?" John asked. 

Sherlock thought the boy must have been saying something in Roma again because he couldn't possibly be comfortable with Sherlock taking a sample. John sighed and stuck out his hand. 

"Glove." he said. 

Sherlock passed him a clean glove and watched in awe as the boy put it on and extracted one of the deer's eyes without flinching. He held it in his fist and pulled the wrist of the glove up over his fingers, tied a knot and passed the glove back over. Sherlock held the glove encased eyeball and barely heard the boy when he whispered. 

"Kaski san?" (whose are you?)


End file.
